The Murderer's Daughters (38 page)

“I know you know,” Sophie said. “But do you know you’re not holding her every breath in your hands? Your doctor-as-God complex is getting out of control. Please, relax a little. You look like hell.”

I frowned, studying the chart for miracles. “I like Audra.”

“I like her also. I want her to live. I want all our patients to live, but you’re giving away too many pounds of flesh for this one. What’s wrong?”

Scenes from childhood kept bubbling up since I’d learned about my father’s release. Even as I held Audra’s chart, I heard my father knocking at the door. I smelled the metallic odor of blood mixed with beer.

“It’s nothing,” I said. “Just Audra’s husband dying so recently, her kids, everything. . . . It’s nothing.”

Sophie didn’t even pretend to listen to my babbled reasoning. “Do something fun this weekend, okay? You’ll have four entire days.”

“Sure, with one day cooking and three days cleaning.”

She snorted. “At least you don’t live with monsters. Imagine Thanksgiving with my boys.”

“Right.” I knocked softly on the exam door before entering. “Sometimes I forget how lucky I am.”

Audra’s cheekbones were skeletal ridges. Scalp freckles showed through her brittle red hair. Excess pigment had produced the dark spots marking her chest. None of these temporary side effects of Audra’s treatment overly bothered me, though I wasn’t so confident about her drug-weakened heart muscle.

I placed a light hand on her arm. “How are you feeling?”

She shrugged. “They say the cancer growth is slowed way down. That’s positive, right?” I reached for my stethoscope and she lowered her gown enough for me to see the knobby points of her shoulders.

“Yes. That’s excellent news.” I warmed my stethoscope, then placed it
on her back. “Breathe. Hold.” Her labored breathing and slowed heartbeat sounded similar to her exam the previous week.

She waited until I finished listening to her vital signs before saying, “But my heart is getting worse?”

“So far I didn’t notice any changes from last week. Though you’ve lost another pound.”

She shrugged. “I can barely eat, and when I do I either throw up or it goes out the other end.”

I pressed on her ankle, checking for edema, which would indicate a worsening heart problem. “You’re not swollen. Good.”

“Traci, my youngest, is really angry. She thinks the cure is killing me. Can she call you?” Audra grabbed my arm when I didn’t answer immediately, her hand so fine-boned and narrow it had become a claw. “Please? I need you to talk to her. She wants reassurance, but I’m so scared I don’t know how to tell her not to worry. And Doctor Denton, God bless him, this isn’t his cup of tea.”

“I can’t tell your daughter not to worry,” I said. “But it’s certainly not hopeless.”

Audra’s smile took up most of her face. “So, that’s what you’ll say.”

“What did you and Aunt Merry used to do for Thanksgiving when you were orphans?” Cassandra asked. My girls stared at me big-eyed, once again confusing me with Anne of Green Gables.

Merry topped off her glass of wine and then gestured with the bottle to Drew, who nodded. I opened my eyes wide like my daughters’.
Wine here, please.

“When we lived with the Cohens,” I said, “we had big meals like this.”

“Who came?” Cassandra watched me with laser eyes, hungry for knowledge of my childhood. Since Cassandra had started seeing the therapist, it had become worse and worse.
Who, why, when, where.
No detail seemed too small for my daughter to dissect.

“Let’s see. There were the Cohens, of course.”

“Anne and Paul, right? Doctor Cohen?” Cassandra asked.

I tried to look relaxed. Just walking down memory lane, folks. “That’s right. And their children. They were already grown-ups.” Cassandra listened as though a nugget of gold might surface. “And Anne and Paul’s grandchildren. I think. Right, Merry?”

“Right.” Merry buttered a roll and shoved half of it in her mouth.

“God, Mom, you don’t remember?” Ruby shook her head and frowned, my judgmental little beauty queen.

Cassandra looked at Ruby as though she were an uninvited guest. “Mom was traumatized.” Cassandra drew out the word. “From being an orphan.”

“Did Doctor Johanna teach you the word
traumatized
?” Drew asked.

Cassandra bobbed her head yes. “She said maybe I picked up on Mommy’s trauma.” She turned and looked at me with great sympathy. “Not because of anything you did, Mommy. It’s all on an unconscious level. That means without knowing you did it.”

“I think you mean
subconscious,
honey,” Drew said. “
Unconscious
means being sort of asleep.
Subconscious
means doing something without realizing it.”

“See, Cassandra?” Ruby smirked. “You’re not so smart.”

“Why don’t we all say what we’re thankful for?” Merry said. “I’m grateful for having particularly brilliant nieces.”

“And pretty. Right, Aunt Merry?” Ruby preened in the soft velvet dress she’d insisted on wearing, despite the casual clothes the rest of us wore. She matched the opalescent china with which Drew had set the table. Red wine for adults and cranberry juice for the girls shimmered in Irish cut crystal glasses, wedding gifts from Drew’s relatives.

“Pretty is as pretty does,” I reminded Ruby. I worried that my younger daughter thought she could skate through life on prettiness and winning swim meets. “How you treat people is more important than how you look.”

Ruby swept back her silky hair, looking not at all convinced. “What are you grateful for, Mommy?”

Not being dead.

I sipped my wine, troubled by my thoughts. “I’m grateful for having a wonderful husband, two wonderful daughters, and a wonderful sister.”

“You sound like Aunt Merry,” Ruby complained. “You can’t copy. Everyone has to come up with something different.”

“Who said?” Cassandra asked.

“It’s the rule. The new rule.” Ruby stuck her chin out. “Otherwise it’s not real.”

“Okay,” Drew said. “I’m grateful the turkey is delicious, Mommy’s stuffing is perfect as ever, and Aunt Merry made cherry pie just so I don’t have to eat pumpkin.”

“No, Daddy.” Ruby looked like she might cry. “We need to do this serious! Like at school.”

“What did you say at school?” I steered the conversation from family and Thanksgiving at the Cohens’, which could lead to Thanksgiving at Duffy. Duffy, where canned cranberry sauce sat upright in chipped bowls, the can markings visible on the red towers. The only girls who ever ate the tinny-tart stuff were the girls so fat, so desperately trying to fill themselves, they’d lick the can if allowed. Scraping our plates clean of the thin servings of turkey and watery mashed potatoes, we looked only at our food, as though ashamed to be seen celebrating in such poor company.

Ruby puffed up with importance. “I said I was thankful for my family, of course, because they love me so much. And I was thankful no one I knew died at the 9/11 World Center. And that Osama Laden didn’t come to Cambridge.”

Maybe Cassandra’s fears had nothing to do with me or my subconsciously poisoning her mind. Maybe 9/11 was our problem. All children waited for disaster now. It didn’t have to be born of our front yard.

“That’s lovely, Ruby,” Merry said.

“What are you grateful for, Daddy? And don’t say food,” Cassandra warned.

Drew put down his knife and sat back. “Everything I’m grateful for is right in this room. Copying good things is okay, Ruby.”

“Daddy got it perfect. Now, let’s eat this meal we’re all so grateful for,” I declared.
I love you, Drew. You rescue me.

Cassandra forked up a small mound of stuffing. Her quivery look presaged
sentimental tears. “Do you still feel like an orphan, Mommy? Do you think about your mother and father all the time?”

Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, rescue me from my past. Give us this day our daily future. Make me know what to say, God. Grant me a peaceful past. I want to rest.

“I think about them sometimes,” I managed to say. “Not always.”

Cassandra tilted her head to the side, her eyes alive with some understanding that thrilled her, more of the Doctor Johanna wisdom coloring our lives, no doubt. “Does it hurt to talk about them? They live in your heart, though, so you always have them with you. Right? So you’re okay. Right?”

I drank half a glass of water to pass words from my dry lips. “Of course I am.”

“So, we’re all okay, right?” Cassandra pressed.

Ruby bit down on a roll in slow motion, crumbs falling to the tablecloth as she waited for my answer. Despite any fights they might have, the girls lived in the world of emotional primogeniture, and Cassandra’s judgment ruled.

Drew pressed his hands flat, keeping his fingers splayed and firm. “We’re okay. We’re all sad Mommy and Aunt Merry’s parents died, but that was a once-in-a-lifetime tragedy. We’re fine.”

Drew’s last words came out with more firmness than he probably intended. The girls jumped like twitchy kittens.

Drew grinned to offset his dour message and heaped stuffing on his already full plate. “We’ll celebrate Christmas soon, and you’ll get a million presents from Grandma and Grandpa Winterson. No more past. Let’s concentrate on what
will
happen, okay?”

I’d take Drew’s words to heart. Live for today, be in the present. Who cared if it sounded like New Age hoo-ha; I needed to stop passing on fear and horror, unknowingly or not. Maybe I’d been subconsciously feeding the girls Zachariah grim fairy tales. I would retrain myself. No more watching for bogeymen at the door.

For two weeks, I managed to keep my vow. I whistled a happy tune. I woke before Drew, bringing him coffee, then waking the children with
newborn lighthearted mother vibes. I ran in circles to avoid being alone with Merry, not able to face the knowledge that I shouldn’t leave her by herself, not caring, so great was my need to be away from the nightmare of my father getting out.

Merry had respected my warnings to let me tell Drew in my own time, but I hadn’t yet told her that I’d told him. That would have made it too real.

I pushed my father out of my mind and lived in a land of cookies and milk.

On the third Monday morning in December, I crumbled. Everyone woke in the throes of anxiety. Ruby had a book report due, and she hadn’t yet colored in the back or front cover, or stapled it together. Cassandra needed a birthday present for a party she’d be attending the next day and feared we wouldn’t remember. Drew had a client meeting, a possible chance to illustrate a new series by a semifamous children’s book author. He’d spent the entire weekend sketching versions of some magical tribe of environmental warrior chipmunks. I thought they looked terrific, but he repeatedly added and subtracted one more blade of grass, one more acorn.

As for me, Audra had suffered a heart incident and spent the weekend in and out of intensive care. Her children had besieged me with calls, hounding me for predictions on which they could count, wanting me to be doctor and soothsayer. Denton had been out of town, and no oncologist on call would make the decision to stop the cancer drug, a decision that could simultaneously save and kill her.
You know her best,
the last oncologist had said.

“Did you hear me, Lu?”

“What?”

“Don’t forget you’re picking up the kids today.” Drew looked nervous. “I’ll call and remind you.”

“Do you really think I’d forget to pick them up?” I watched the girls slurp up their cereal. Ruby’s expression said she believed anything bad was possible, while Cassandra maintained her Doctor-Johanna-says-it’s-all-fine face.

“I need to finish my report cover,” Ruby said.

“I’ll set my watch to give you a reminder call, Lu,” Drew said.

“You’ll be in the middle of a presentation, for goodness’ sake,” I said. “Girls, hurry. It’s almost time to leave.”

“I can put the watch on vibrate. It’s not a formal presentation.”

“I haven’t finished my cover,” Ruby shouted.
“No one is listening to me!”

“No one can help but hear you. Now listen to me. Everyone.” I pointed at Cassandra, who’d opened her mouth—no doubt wanting to make sure her needs were on the list. “Quiet. Drew, I’ll pick up the children. Concentrate on selling yourself. Ruby, march into the living room right now and finish; Daddy will be in to help you in a minute. And Cassandra, we’ll stop at the CambridgeSide Galleria on the way home from school.”